


A gas station at night

by Jackoandplants



Category: Death Note
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-21
Updated: 2018-09-21
Packaged: 2019-07-15 05:16:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16056302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jackoandplants/pseuds/Jackoandplants
Summary: A gas station at night. Buzzing insects, flickering street lights. A dark night sky, illuminated by an ocean of stars and a moon so thin, it’s almost invisible. Dry asphalt, dry air. That’s the scene. That’s what he sees when he gets out of the car.  // My first fic ( written very spontaneously ), please enjoy





	A gas station at night

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic on this platform! I'm not a native english speaker but I hope you still enjoy my work :)

A gas station at night.  
Buzzing insects, flickering street lights. A dark night sky, illuminated by an ocean of stars and a moon so thin, it’s almost invisible. Dry asphalt, dry air.  
That’s the scene. That’s what he sees when he gets out of the car. His lungs are burning, it feels like he’s breathing colors: Brown, grey, black. The kind of black that doesn’t only lack any kind of color or brightness, but that also seems dangerous, frightening. Like a void that fills the streets completely and longs to crawl to his feet, to suck him in and never let go, never let go, only held back by the gas station’s lights.  
When he passes the street to get to the shabby building the only sound is that of the neon lights above him and the countless amounts of crickets hiding in the dead grass. Their song is a steady melody that soothes him.  
And then this happens; he gets in. Walks around. Grabs a bag of chips, then stops in front of the beverages. Takes a coke. Puts it back. Takes a bottle of whisky instead.  
Now he’s at the counter. The girl sitting behind it looks his age; old enough to drink, not old enough to actually enjoy it. She’s pretty. Not the kind of pretty you see in a magazine, yet prettier than you’d expect to see in a place like this.  
A pack of Marlboros (red, classic) is the last thing he purchases, because his lungs hurt anyway and the cigarette smell is a part of him, has been, since he’s fourteen. Too young to smoke, too young to enjoy it. The girl doesn’t smile and he’s sure she’d look even better doing it. Then again, who cares.  
He gets out. The air is still dusty and heavy after a long day of summer heat, but refreshing nevertheless. He walks back to his red Chevy, looking on the ground while walking, deep in thought.  
He looks up and then he sees him.  
Or rather, he sees his shadow.  
Or rather, he doesn’t see him at all.  
He looks through him; he’s a vision, nothing more. He stands there, still, looking back at him out of the shadows. His face is barely visible in the dark, yet beautiful. Unforgiving.  
This isn’t the first time he sees the blonde. In fact, he sees him everywhere, all the time, under the shower, in the kitchen, when he’s awake, when he’s asleep, especially when he’s asleep.  
So he almost walks past him.  
And then this happens: the vision moves, just a little bit. He gets closer to him and looks straight up, noticing now that the boy in front of him breathes.  
This has never happened before.  
He breathes, he thinks, god, he breathes.  
Another step towards the vision - which is in fact more than a vision.  
How can he breathe?  
Now they both stand still, directly in front of each other under a dim flickering street light. It makes them look like ghosts. Two pale faces, one freckled, one burned, both tired.  
“Hey.”  
How can he talk?, he thinks. Did he actually talk? Could visions talk? They never did before. They never even breathed, they just haunted him, reminding him constantly of conversations and looks and moments by just looking at him. But that man in front of him is more than a hallucination. At least his voice is; quiet in the dark, yes, but clear and certain.  
“Hey.”, he says back. It comes out tired and exhausted, a bit hoarse - not that certain. He feels nothing. His body and mind are trapped in a hypnotic state, he just looks at the blonde man in front of him with blank eyes and disinterest.  
„What a shithole, mh?“, the other one says, motioning with his head at the gas station‘s direction.  
He can breathe. He can talk. He’s real.  
Real, real, real.  
Suddenly he realizes what’s happening. He looks in the man’s face and waves of emotions threaten to drown him, adrenaline rushes through his body, he can hear his heart beat as loud as a plane crash.  
This face, he thinks, these lips, these eyes. This voice.  
His fingers around the whisky bottle tighten until the white of his knuckles is clearly visible and he feels its surface hard and cold against his skin. A thousand memories flicker behind his eyes, no, more than a thousand. And then it’s over. All of a sudden, just one name swirls in his head:  
Mello.  
His legs are faster than his brain. They carry him away from the other one and out of this strange light into the dark. The black void that still surrounds the world suddenly doesn’t feel as threatening anymore, instead it’s a welcoming change. Like another world he enters, where he can leave the last 2 minutes and 34 seconds behind.  
His eyes relax a bit and the steps towards his car are fast and steady. With his free hand he grabs the handle and only then notices two things: 1. he‘s shaking. 2. Mello is behind him.  
Now that he had seen him and had realized that he wasn’t a vision but an actual person ( real, real, real ) it feels like he could sense his presence behind his back, a lurking shadow where it’s too dark for shadows to even exist.  
„Wait.“, says the shadow.  
He finally manages to open the door, throws his ‘groceries‘ into the passenger’s seat and closes it shut again.  
“Matt, wait.”  
He’d like to just walk around the car, get into the driver’s seat and rush away from here, doing nothing for hours, just driving and forgetting. But when he turns around Mello stands right in front of him. He never looked so real. His blue eyes pierce through the darkness, fixing on him, never letting go. Never letting go.  
He swallows. What is he supposed to do? Just be surprised? Be angry? A few moments ago he felt nothing. Now he feels everything.  
The silence between them is as heavy as the heat. He tries to withstand Mello’s look, but it’s just too much. He wants to take him in and analyze his face and body and soul, wants to remember every mole on his pale skin, wants to touch his hair and feel if it’s still as soft as it used to be, wants to paint his entire appearance with kisses and desperation. He’s not strong enough.  
So he looks away embarrassed and the seconds go by.  
Mello keeps observing him like a scientist looking at his final project, his gaze focused, then tired.  
“Fuck Matt, don’t make this even more awkward.”, he says slightly annoyed. Nervousness seeps through his tone.  
Matt slowly looks up. He tries to look okay while his entire body tenses and goose bumps prickle on his skin.  
“What do you want?”  
It doesn’t come out as cold and distant as he’d like it to be, but Mello flinches a bit and his eyes lose their sharpness completely.  
“I don’t know. Talk, I guess.”  
“Bout what?”  
“The fuck should I know. Like, life.”  
Matt laughs. Except it’s not a laugh, just a noise that could be the beginning of a laugh, but it’s too short and sounds too sad.  
“Yeah, great. Let’s talk about life.”, he murmurs while fidgeting out the Marlboros out of his back pocket. Let’s talk about how you vanished, he thinks.  
His lighter flicks and a little cloud of toxic smoke escapes into the night. Matt feels how the muscles in his neck start to relax, now that he takes a drag from the cigarette and Mello takes a few steps back. He had never complained about Matt’s smoking, even though he hated it.  
“So,” Matt says, blowing out smoke, “what are ya up to?”  
It’s hard to sound so casual but he thinks he nails it quite good, since he’s not the one who wanted to start this conversation. Mello answers after a little pause, like he’s thinking about what he can actually tell him.  
“Just…stuff. Since Kira’s death there was time for, you know, other important things.”  
Three years.  
“Didn’t stay in L.A. any longer, cuz it really pissed me of.”  
You were gone for three years.  
“First Germany, then Moscow…”  
You didn’t say a word.  
“Well, now I’m here.”  
Matt nods weakly. “Yeah”, he says, slowly, “now you’re here.”  
Another few seconds, another drag of the cigarette. Mello sighs. He still seems annoyed and slightly nervous, brushing his long hair back with restless fingers.  
“Look, I know you’re angry, okay? I don’t know what I expected, but-, I could use you right now.”  
The other one leans against his car, completely still. Small flakes of ash fall on his jeans, staining them. He doesn’t care.  
I could use you right now.  
Is he surprised? He shouldn’t be. It has always been like this. Mello demanding, Matt following, like a dog that’s been saved once and now tries to obey his savior for a life time. How pathetic. Anger rises in him, creeps slowly in his mind until he closes his eyes and tries to shut out the loud voice in his head, He used you, it says, and now he tries to do it again, you idiot. Back when they were children, two orphans desperately seeking guidance and love, he hadn’t cared. He did as he was told because Mello was the one who told him. It was like he didn’t have to care about anything since the little blonde demon always had a plan he needed help with. It was a good feeling to be needed and a good feeling to help.  
And then Mello had left him. Once, twice. Now, in this godforsaken valley in the middle of the night, after three years of haunting visions, sleepless nights spent in a haze of self-pity, Mello stands right next to him, eyes staring into nothing, hands shoved in dark jeans that are too tight.  
Matt’s eyes are still shut when he hears him shifting and the next thing he feels is the other one’s hot breath brushing his face. He’s so close that he can actually smell him: aftershave, sweat and a hint of chocolate.  
“I’m sorry.” His voice is so quiet that Matt thinks for a second that he imagined it.  
“That wasn’t what I wanted to say.”  
And just like that, the spell is broken. He opens his eyes and realizes how close Mello actually is. The whole situation makes him feel dizzy and overwhelmed.  
He nods almost unnoticeable. “I know.”, he whispers.

And then this happens: Two boys sit on the roof of a dusty old Chevy nearby a gas station, at 3:58am. They share a bottle of whisky and a bag of chips, occasionally coughing because they’re still too young to drink slowly and enjoy the liquor. They don’t look at the stars; they don’t kiss. They don’t share memories since neither of them needs help to remember any moment they had ever spent together. They don’t make out; just their pinkies are slightly touching, a little yet lovely gesture. They don’t look at each other with hungry eyes because they’re both too tired to let their desire take over, at least not now.  
What they are doing is watching the sun slowly rise. A process happening every day but on this day, they swear, it’s something special.  
The truth is this: Matt knows Mello would vanish again. It would all happen one more time, like a famous theater play everyone wants to see again and again and again, for eternity, because it never gets old, there’s always a new kind of hurt and betrayal. But also love, a lot of love and desire and companionship. What a tragic they both are, Matt thinks. What a beautiful, wrecked tragic.


End file.
